


there are roots in the places we don't want there to be

by chifon



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Reconciliation (not really), Chance Meeting, M/M, Making Out, Post-Canon, Slight blood mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28499388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chifon/pseuds/chifon
Summary: Where endings aren’t always happy, not for them at least.
Relationships: Eduardo Saverin/Mark Zuckerberg
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	there are roots in the places we don't want there to be

**Author's Note:**

> i have markwardo brain damage. i tried my best.

Mark comes back into Eduardo’s life like he always does: suddenly, yet almost discreetly. 

He hadn’t even known that Mark was going to be at this cocktail party until they managed to run into each other at the bar. He knows that Mark, through a couple years of avoiding him, doesn’t attend events he doesn’t have to go to, especially ones as pretentious as this one being in this huge Victorian mansion that’s been rented out for this very occasion; well, Mark probably attempts to get out of the ones that he does have to go to as well, but someone, probably Chris, manages to force him into a majority of them. 

Whoever is managing Mark, though, is doing their job surprisingly well because Mark’s wearing a suit; an actual suit with a solid black tie and _dress shoes_. He didn’t even think that Mark even owned a pair of dress shoes. He didn’t even wear dress shoes to the deposition, just a pair of dark sneakers—one of the two pairs of shoes that Mark actually owns. Eduardo got Mark to wear them a couple times during the winter when Mark started showing onset symptoms of frostbite for several consecutive days; he had marched into the dorm every morning and shoved them on his feet because _‘Mark, goddammit, you’re going to lose your toes’._

When had they gotten to that point, where Eduardo had begun to care about Mark. Maybe, it was when they had first met in that literature class in their freshman year of college that Eduardo had been running late to due to getting coffee dumped all over his shirt. Luckily, he was right outside his dorm; unluckily, changing took a lot longer than he had anticipated. He slid into the back row when he arrived, not even noticing that he was sitting next to someone until halfway through the lecture when he felt a weight against his shoulder. Before he could move the stranger’s head or nudge them awake, he heard a couple soft snores in his ear; Eduardo leaned in, curious, close enough to see the dark black circles around the stranger’s eyes weighing him down and Eduardo couldn’t bring himself to wake him up. He decided to let the man rest against his shoulder. It’s not until the end of class—when the loud banging and moving of the students leaving had started—that the stranger woke up. The man hadn’t even looked startled when he rose, looking around the classroom first before landing on Eduardo with this rather blank, yet obviously weary expression. 

“Sorry,” the stranger says before picking up his backpack. 

“It's alright,” he replied and the man is already up on his feet and Eduardo doesn’t really want him to go yet for some reason. “What’s your name?”

“Mark,” the stranger yawns, pausing for a moment to stare at Eduardo, squinting like he was confused on why he was being talked to. “Zuckerberg”

“Eduardo Saverin,” Eduardo says with a smile and a reached out hand because just having the name felt like a small victory in itself. “Nice to meet you, Mark”

“Yeah,” Mark says and walks out. 

A couple days later he gets an email to a site called Coursematch, but that doesn’t really matter, what really mattered was at the bottom: a Mark Zuckerberg production. The next week he’s asking Mark to lunch after class—his treat because Mark seemed like he wanted to escape, but Mark’s stomach is making these terrifying grumbling and squelching sounds and Eduardo can see the clogs in his mind spinning, coming to the conclusion that turning down a free meal at this point wouldn’t be the smartest move—and that’s where their friendship had begun.

A friendship that would crash and burn so badly that there would be nothing left to salvage from it. Well, Eduardo hasn’t been trying to salvage anything. He still doesn’t know what to do with this anger inside of him; time has mellowed it out, of course, but there is still some resentment that isn't ready to go just yet. 

“Can we talk?” Mark asks and Eduardo wasn’t really expecting that. He thought that even after two years, they’d still be on non speaking terms. No, no, Mark would be like this, keep driving stubbornly forward and ignore the trivialities of circumstances. 

“About?” Eduardo asks, coming out bitter, but polite because if there’s anything that Eduardo has, it’s manners. 

“Us,” Mark says and gazes at him for a minute or so like he’s waiting for some sort of reply; Eduardo doesn’t really know what to say to that because how could he? How could he ever prepare for the enigma of Mark fucking Zuckerberg? “We should talk in private.” 

And yeah, Eduardo doesn’t know how to respond to _that_ because at least, in this mass of fairly important people, he’s got enough obligation to stay civil, but alone he doesn’t. Not with Mark. 

“Unless, you want to talk about it here” and Eduardo doesn’t want that either. 

“No, let’s go. I’m sure there’s got to be a private room around here somewhere,” Eduardo says. 

“Okay,” Mark shrugs nonchalantly, yet slightly tense. It makes something twist inside of Eduardo’s stomach, dread maybe. 

They find an empty room pretty easily with how everybody is mostly gathered in the living room, networking and such. They seem to have ended up in the library of this place, judging by the bookcases lined against the walls filled with novels that don’t seem to have a speck of dust on them, but probably haven’t been moved from the space since they’ve been set there. There are two sitting chairs in the middle and a small table between them for reading; neither of them sit, however, just doesn’t seem right to. The fireplace on the far side of the wall is alight surprisingly, even though it will consume all these books in a second if it was ever set loose from the stone barriers locking it away. It will eat and eat, grow even stronger, burn even brighter as it turns everything around it into ash. 

“What do you want, Mark?” Eduardo asks once he’s in the middle of the room, turning around over to Mark who’s shutting the double doors behind them. Mark is leaning against the dark wood of the door, watching Eduardo carefully. 

“My therapist said I need closure for what happened: the lawsuit, the deposition, me screwing you out of the company,” Mark says, getting right to the point while also going at this uneven pace that only he understands in typical Mark fashion. “and that talking to you again might be it. That apologizing and absolution might be the key” 

“We can’t,” Eduardo interrupts and he thinks that Mark is going to vehemently deny that fact because Mark won’t be able to understand that the price tag on their baggage can never truly be bought even when you may be the youngest billionaire in the world, but Mark just states so matter of factly, “I know”. 

Eduardo wonders if he does, how forgiveness isn’t an option for what they have between them; Mark’s not one to lie though. Maybe, he doesn’t know Mark as much as he thinks he does. 

That’s the scariest part. 

“I’m not sorry for anything. I think that the moves I made were right for Facebook,” Mark says, looking straight into his eyes because he has to let Eduardo know that this is the undeniable truth: “I chose the company over you.” and Eduardo swallows.

The anger settles back into him, yet differently this time. There’s no energy to it like the rage he had felt when he had smashed that laptop, just this quiet upsetness—a dull sting from old wounds being reopened. It’s discomforting to say the least; it’s agitating to say more. 

“It hurts though,” Mark confesses, turning away this time. “without you here and I don’t know how to deal with that.” Eduardo is looking straight at him, seeing the uncomfortable shuffling that he’s doing and yeah, Mark isn’t _comfortable_ with this admission strangely enough. The man who is so painfully honest and blunt about everything being so uneasy here is just ironic. "I catch myself looking at the spaces that you are not in like I’m expecting you to be there when you’re obviously not, being halfway across the world. It’s frustrating how I can’t stop thinking about you and I get even more riled up when I think about what happened.” 

“I need it,” Mark shakes his head. “I want it to stop, Eduardo. I want closure.” Then, Mark’s meeting his gaze confidently continuing, “I know you do too. You wouldn’t be talking to me otherwise.”

He doesn’t want to say that Mark is right, but he can’t go around vehemently denying that Mark is because what happens then? They go back to not talking again, agonizing over little things that will never go away because it all feels incomplete until they meet each other again in a scenario similar to this one except, in the end, he’ll choose a different path. There is, after all, only so much heartache that he can take.

“How?” Eduardo asks. “How do we get closure?” 

“Kiss me,” Mark replies as if that’s the answer to all the secrets in the world. Something so simply, yet easily seen if you just look close enough. 

“What?” Eduardo says because what in the holy, “Mark, what the—” 

“I know you want to”

“Fuck you” 

“I’m hoping you do” 

That’s really the last straw. 

Eduardo’s slamming Mark against the door before he knows it, hearing the loud jostling of the wood behind Mark. It’s really a bad idea because from here, Eduardo can see Mark, really see him. See those soft, brown curls that never seem to stay neat no matter what Eduardo does. See those darkening, yet clear blue eyes that are filled with the entire universe and all its secrets; maybe more because Eduardo knows how vast and bright they become when Mark goes on one of his rants. See those sharp cheekbones and pale skin dusted with a hint of freckles that you can only see when you’re up super close which is why nobody has ever really seen them—only Eduardo has on those drunken late nights where the need for personal space doesn’t exist in Mark and he’s okay with being looked at so scrutinizingly. He recalls wanting to kiss Mark in those moments, wondering if he could, knowing that he can’t.

So he does now. 

The kiss is more an intrusion than anything, borderline vicious in its manner as it demands entrance that Mark gives so easily. He’s allowing Eduardo to swallow him whole because this is what he wants and Eduardo feels so mad that he always ends up giving Mark everything, even now when they’re so broken. He hates that. He hates this. He hates that Mark’s mouth tastes like alcohol and this artificial sweetness, everything he imagined it to be. 

Eduardo bites into Mark’s lip hard enough to make it bleed, replacing the taste with the hint of iron, and Mark whimpers in pain, holding onto Eduardo’s arms desperately, keeping him here. Not wanting this to end. Eduardo’s hands drop down to Mark’s tie, yanking it off with a surprising amount of skill that even Eduardo himself doesn’t know how he did it. He’s also somehow able to get some of the buttons off Mark's shirt undone too while still licking and nibbling into Mark’s mouth. When they part, Eduardo’s teeth automatically latch onto the side of Mark’s throat, hard enough to bruise and low enough to be hidden, and Mark is gasping out a breathless, “Wardo” like they’re back in that dorm room laid out on the couch or on Mark’s bed, drifting off to the night and the warm sensation of alcohol in their stomachs, being so close to each other that he can smell the citrus of Mark’s shampoo, making him want to bury himself into it.

Eduardo wants to pretend that they’re there, in that little room, right now: that this situation was a part of then and not now. Because what would this be—this moment where this emotion that feels so close to love but can’t be, can’t ever be after everything, is rushing through his being—in the now?

All he knows is that whatever this was, is, it's not—wasn’t ever—a goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on twt: @matchibuns


End file.
